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A Poem for Home
by Catherine Hathaway

This town might be the unfriendliest
in all of New England, with its
leaning particleboard estates
and manicured gardens
and small yippy dogs

but I think back to my Mother's antique home
by the shore, where the flowers are planted
with her own two hands and
the dog is big, and lovable,
and stupid as sin

and even in the mire of nose-jobs and nannies
I can find me, the simple girl
who likes homemade bread and
can feel the flowers in her fingertips
when she writes poems of home.





 

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